Holding Gently, Not Hostage
by whathobertie
Summary: The way she touched him, wow. Cal/Gillian, romance.


**TITLE:** Holding Gently, Not Hostage**  
GENRE:** Romance**  
CHARACTERS:** Cal, Gillian**  
PAIRING:** Cal/Gillian**  
RATING:** M (warning: sexual content)**  
SPOILERS:** None**  
WORDS:** 1,300**  
SUMMARY:** The way she touched him, wow.

* * *

The way she touched him, wow. Just a piece of cotton between her delicate fingers and his maltreated face. He looked her in the eyes and said nothing. Sometimes he would flinch slightly when the disinfectant hit a particularly sore spot, but mostly he just stared and sometimes she would look back. Deep into his eyes.

They had a whole conversation saying nothing, but he wasn't entirely sure what it was they were talking about.

* * *

Admiration was a word he could use for her in every single way. When it came to the job she was doing, the good she kept pursuing, the love she had for people—even for the ones not deserving of her affection.

When it came to _this_. Swabbing his silly face with the patience of saint. It was always her who did it.

Well, not quite; he once helped her wash that godawful blood from her hands. It had haunted him for months.

It truly boiled down to him not really knowing how she was doing it all.

So he kept on watching, kept on admiring, kept on hoping she would inject some of her worthiness into him with her touch. What a cliché.

* * *

He held on to her fingers when she was ready to take them away; done with cleaning up the mess like she usually did. He pressed them gently against his face as if they possessed a special kind of healing power and they actually did.

"I can't do this anymore," she said, sounding worn out.

"Making my face sexy again?"

It made her smile and doing so was his favorite kind of happiness.

"Being worried sick about you." So much sadness in her eyes, gosh.

He took her fingers from his face, but held on to her hand in his lap. He would always hold on to her.

* * *

There was a particular spot at the crook of her neck, that he could swear was his. Behind her ear and then a few inches down. Her ride-hand side; his left. Silly to think, but what could he do.

He breathed in the sweet scent of the place that felt like home and idiotically hoped nobody would ever come near her again. A selfish thought from a truly selfish man.

* * *

This time it was her hand holding on to his. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"Am I not?" He was close to where his jacket was, but even closer to her. He thought of her fingers and _that_ place on her neck again where he fit so effortlessly, so perfectly. He thought of every inch of her he had ever touched.

"That's what I was hoping." It wasn't a plea; it was really just stating an obvious truth.

"Are you holding me hostage?"

"Thought you already had other people for that. People who also fuck up your pretty face."

He stayed, hoping to maybe find a spot on her he hadn't touched before. One he would be invited to savor. Leaving was actually the last thing he wanted to do and maybe he should have just said so.

* * *

The tea she gave him was warm, not hot. Much like her skin on his, when her arm touched him as they both leaned back against the kitchen counter.

By now touching was not a coincidence, was it?

* * *

The urge was unbearable. "Can I hug you again?"

_That_ place below her ear was still wonderfully familiar. Nothing had changed and why would things have changed anyway?

He kissed the spot and she let him—even when his lips lingered much longer than they usually would.

"You smell nice," he let her know.

"Yeah, of existential fear. You seem to think that's attractive."

He held on a little tighter, but he also chuckled.

* * *

He fell asleep on the couch holding her hand. They've never held hands this long before and maybe the comfort it added, made him feel safe enough to simply go to sleep after a day of balancing on a knife's edge.

* * *

Disorientation hit him. But her gentle words caught him and absorbed the shock of waking up.

"Let's go to bed," she suggested and he just drowsily and stupidly followed her until they both somehow ended up between the same sheets.

* * *

There where her foot lightly touched his right leg, they had never touched before. It was hard not to think about it. Her face was hidden in the crook of his neck—probably exactly the same spot he liked so much on her.

Gentle breathing, her foot a little cold, her arm swung over his upper body, his hand caressing her shoulder. From time to time she made a small sound, suggesting that maybe she was dreaming.

He was comfortably sleepy instead of bone-tired now.

Even her bed linen felt incredibly nice on his skin.

* * *

He woke up a couple of times, thinking he really shouldn't be as lucky as he was.

* * *

In the wee hours of the morning, it was her hand that woke him up again. Woke him up as gently as her hand was caressing the bare skin under his shirt.

Maybe he should have asked her what she was doing or maybe he shouldn't have. All he knew was that it felt lovely. Electrifying.

She turned her head a little, so her breath gently fell upon his face, while her fingers wandered a little further down and slowly slipped under the hem of his boxers.

His head stopped working, but he didn't feel like he would ever need it again.

"Kiss me," she whispered incredibly softly and he complied.

* * *

They had kissed each other before. Three times actually.

First: On that one case, pretending to be a kinky couple.

Second: When she was tipsy from his expensive scotch and he had to stop her mid-kiss before she would regret wherever that was going.

Third: An incident they both pretended had never happened.

In a way he was glad they had practiced. And yet, this was an entirely new quality of tongues being hungry for each other.

* * *

Oh, damn, fuck. No, her hand had certainly never been there before. She stroked slowly, steadily, and he had to check whether this was just a dream. If it was, it might have been one of his best ones ever. If it wasn't, then it was a dream come true.

* * *

"It's okay," she whispered at one point and he let go. Not of her, just of that wonderful tension.

* * *

"Sorry," he said, "now I made a mess."

In the darkness he couldn't really see her smile, but he heard it. Years of knowing each other and such. "I made you make a mess."

He wracked his brain to remember if he ever heard somebody utter something more sexy towards him. He hadn't.

* * *

He kissed his way down from the spot he adored to the warm, smooth inside of her thigh. She arched towards him, his mouth, his tongue, until he finally gave her what she craved. Eagerly circling, gently sucking. Her moans were small whispers, her body his sanctuary.

A quiet 'God' escaped her, and he was sure she actually meant him. Big ego and what have you.

After that he waited for a minute or so, just admiring her. And then he made her come again.

* * *

Falling asleep had never been this easy. And neither had been waking up.

She traced the outlines of his tattoos (he just found out she has one as well) and then looked up to him, smiling. "Your face looks worse, but happier."

"Still sexy enough?"

She nodded and if one day this whole love for her would kill him, then he could at least die a happy man.

"Please hold me hostage more often."

She held him indeed, gently not hostage, her touch telling a story of love. Probably like the romance novel he could spot on her nightstand.

**THE END**


End file.
